He awoke to the sound of machines, the steady beeping of EKG machines on the ward and the distant sounds of a defibrillator, and the hums of the other devices affixed to his wrists and arms. A draft blew across his skin as he realized he was only clothed in a scanty hospital gown underneath translucent white sheets. Turquoise curtains flanked either side of his makeshift room, but he could view doctors, nurses, and residents hurrying by in their turquoise scrubs on the open entranceway to his bed, wheeling gurneys down the main corridor of the emergency ward and shouting medical terminology of with which he was not familiar.
Soon after he had regained consciousness, a doctor approached him as he lay in the hospital bed, smiling and writing something down on a clipboard. "That's good that you're awake now, Mr.—" he referred to the paper—"Monk. How are you feeling?"
He was confused and bewildered by this new environment, and opened his mouth to reply to the doctor, but nothing came out.
"You definitely look a good deal better," the doctor commented.
"Wh-what's wrong with me? Wh-why am I here?" he weakly murmured, practically a hoarse whisper.
"Your—Dr. Kroger brought you here, and you passed out in the car. You've come down with pneumonia, but don't worry, you'll be out of this ward soon."
"Pneumonia?" He attempted to lift his arms in disbelief, but was too exhausted to do so. He could only speak in a harsh whisper. "So that's it—I'm going to die. Will I be sent home, alone, to die?" He began to cough up more mucus, and hastily swallowed it, as the doctor looked on.
"You're not going t—We're actually going to move you up to the third floor, to observe you for a night."
"Why?"
"By the scan done of your lungs, it seems you have double pneumonia. We'll have to start you on antibiotics as soon as possible."
"Double pneumonia?"
"That means both of your lungs have fluid in them. Don't worry too much about it, though; we'll clear it up with antibiotics. But we do want to observe you, to make sure that your loss of consciousness didn't exacerbate your preexisting condition."
There went the medical terms. And he had been on a roll too, explaining everything to him in understandable waysThe detective sighed, rolling his eyes at the situation. It was extremely difficult for him to breathe, like his chest was being restricted by some invisible belt. He attempted to pull himself to a seated position to improve his air flow, but the doctor pushed him back onto the mattress.
"You'll be brought up there very soon. Would you like to see Dr. Kroger now?" he told him, as he straightened the sheets at the foot of the mattress.
"Uhm…. alright," he replied, as he immediately reached under the sheets to adjust the gown and tucked the sheets under the mattress on either side.
Dr. Kroger was waiting in the lobby, and stood up as the emergency room doctor approached him. "Your—patient, Adrian Monk—is in pretty bad shape," he said, nodding his head and clicking his pen against the clipboard. "He has a pretty severe case of bacterial pneumonia, and it's double pneumonia as well. He'll probably have to be here for a couple of nights."
"Are you sure about this, Doctor?" the psychiatrist asked. "This man has obsessive compulsive disorder, and so he avoids germs at all costs…. He's the cleanest person I've ever known…."
"He still could have acquired the infection from being rundown, cooped up at home—"
"Well, his nurse left him almost five months ago, and he's been basically homebound since then, and pretty depressed, I might add."
"That'sit then. You really should call up some of his friends and family, to help cheer him up. That will help him get over this more quickly." He hastily changed the subject, motioning to the gut of the ward. "Would you like to see him?"
The psychiatrist nodded, following the doctor to Adrian's makeshift room, where he was propped up on one elbow in the hospital bed, drawing his knees toward his upper body to prevent anyone nearby from seeing his feet.
"Hey, Adrian, how are you feeling?" Dr. Kroger asked him, warmly smiling at the miserable detective. He felt terrible for the man, having to stay alone in the hospital for the next couple days.
A group of nurses came by and pointed at Adrian's bed. "We're going to be taking him upstairs now," one of them stated. The detective pulled himself to a seated position, but the nurses instructed him to lie down again.
If this was such a minor thing, why did he have to be admitted? Shouldn't he just get some medicine and be sent on his way? He watched the doctor stroll away, but had to ask him one more thing that was bothering him.
"Am I being admitted as an inpatient or as an outpatient?"
"Inpatient," the doctor responded, smiling grimly, and continuing on his way. Suddenly the clipboard became imperative for the doctor to concentrate on, and Adrian knew it was because he didn't want to be questioned any further. His condition must really be serious. Maybe Dr. Kroger told him to keep mum about details. The nurses kicked up the brakes on the bed and wheeled him toward the waiting service elevator, opened to expose its sickly yellow glow.
"Elevator!" he cried. "No—no elevator." He glanced at the four rotund female nurses, and down at the metal bars of his hospital bed. They continued to wheel his bed toward the open door, and he shifted his position on the bed, preparing to slide off.
"What are you doing, mister?" one asked him, as his leg appeared beneath the sheets, hanging off the side of the bed.
"I—can't—I've had terrible, terrible experiences with elevators—you don't understand."
"I assure you, mister; nothing is going to happen!"
"That's what I'm afraid of. The doors probably won't come open, and the buttons won't work, which is a fire hazard, and the—"
"Sir, we have to take you up to your room. It's on the third floor. Would you rather climb the stairs?"
"Yes," he replied quietly, shifting his other leg to hang off the side of the bed. "Please—could you let me do that? I can do that—"
He didn't expect to have his legs collapse beneath him upon their landing on the floor. As he frantically held the gown down and together in the back, muttering angrily to himself, the nurses promptly hoisted him back up onto the mattress and positioned his legs to be parallel and centered in the bed.
Two of the nurses instructed him to lie down, and when he refused, they had to push him onto his back in the gentlest way possible, by keeping his arms from propping him up.
The four nurses wheeled the bed into the elevator and the door closed behind them as one nurse pushed the button for the third floor. Oh, God, this place was small.It was like a death box, a falling death box The elevator had to have more than a thousand pounds in it at the momentHe nervously glanced over at the weight limit, seeing 5000 pounds stated clearly. Wait—did that say 5000 pounds, or 5000 grams—
Less than a minute after the initial jolt, the elevator came to a stop at the third floor, and the 'bing' of the door sounded as it slid open effortlessly.
"See? Now, that wasn't so bad, sir," a nurse remarked. Dr. Kroger was already by the nurses' station, leaning against the desk.
The psychiatrist stayed at Adrian's bedside for an hour, then called up Captain Stottlemeyer at his home after recollecting it being written in the detective's Rolodex. He made sure he called from the nurse's station, so that Adrian would not know about the severity of his condition in what he was to tell the captain.
"Hello, Captain Stottlemeyer?" he began carefully.
"Yes? Who is this?" the deep familiar voice replied.
"This is—Dr. Kroger, Adrian Monk's psychiatrist. I just wanted to let you know that Adrian is here, at UCSF Medical Center on Parnassus Ave. He has a pretty bad case of bacterial pneumonia, and the doctors thought it would be good for him to have some visitors to help get him back on his feet."
"Pneumonia? I talked to him earlier this week; sounded like a cold to me. I'll be right down."
They said their goodbyes and soon Captain Stottlemeyer was at the hospital in room 309, where a weak-looking Adrian Monk fidgeted in the bed. Kroger had specifically indicated a single room, fortunately for the obsessive-compulsive man.
"Now, how did you happen to come down with this, Adrian? You sounded a lot better earlier this week."
"I… don't know, captain. Am I going to die?"
The captain let out a laugh. "Of course not, Monk; you'll be out of here in no time. They just want to observe you, is all."
"Well, I don't feel like I'm getting any better. Worse, in fact. I can already sense that you're both fading from m—"
"Now, you know that's not true. You're just not used to being sick. I remember when I was younger I had the most horrible case of mono, and the do—"
He was silenced by Dr. Kroger placing his hand on his knee.
"Adrian, I really think that the main cause of this is all in your head—" the psychiatrist began to say.
"Don't you think I know that already? Look at me; I can't even help myself!" He couldn't help but scratch the tubes running into the top of his hand. It irked him to think of the materials they were sending directly into his bloodstream.
"When a person gets pneumonia they can't help themselves. That's not your fault, Adrian. It was just your time to get it."
Adrian tried to nod, but it just seemed absurd that he should acquire this… disease now that his nurse, his personal RN, was gone. Maybe it was fate that he should be alone in his suffering….
The two men spent approximately two hours or so at the room, both promising to see the detective the following day. Dr. Kroger left a bit earlier than Stottlemeyer, who felt a bit uncomfortable attempting to make conversation with the man that he had misdiagnosed earlier in the week.
Where's Sharona? Adrian thought, as he tried to consume the bland hospital food. She had been an RN at this very hospital, and she hadn't showed… Did she even know he was there? Probably not. He scowled as he sighed, pulling the blankets up to chest-level. He could tell the captain was going to be leaving soon, for he had stood up and was staring at something outside his window.
"If I happen to get worse," he mentioned to the captain, "could you please tell Sharona?"
"Why do you say that? Don't you want to get better?"
"Yes, but—just in case I don't—could you get a hold of her?"
"Now, how am I supposed to do that? Did she leave you a number?"
"No." He shifted uncomfortably, knowing that she had been purposely avoiding him.
"That's what I thought, or else she'd already be back here, tending to you."
"Well—she's living in her ex-husband's—ahem, husband's house in New Jersey; his name's Trevor… Howe."
The captain approached his bedside, leaning towards him. "You're going to get better very soon, Adrian," he said to his former coworker. "They've already started you on antibiotics. You're in the best place you could be."
"I know, but—could you do that, just in case?"
The mustached man sighed, rolling his eyes as he straightened his back and turned towards the open door. "Okay." He gave Adrian a little wave. "I'll see you tomorrow."
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
Over the next two days, Adrian's condition worsened, as he grew increasingly weaker. At the end of visiting hours during the second day, Stottlemeyer gaped as the sick detective grabbed his sleeve, pulling him down to ear level.
"Could you please get a hold of Sharona now?" he murmured feebly. "I think I could consider myself… deteriorating…. Please, before it's too late…."
The captain was distraught at how horrible his friend sounded, at how clogged up and difficult it had become for him to breathe. His friend was in complete and utter despair, and there was nothing that he could do or say to improve things for Adrian. The detective wheezed every time he breathed, teeth chattering while he lie under the thick layer of blankets and sheets. Leland looked at Adrian fearfully, and knew that he just had to go along with him; maybe he'd begin to improve at the hope that she might just come back to him. It was all he could do to help him.
"Okay, Monk…. I'll do that—but I can't promise you she'll com—"
"I understand," the sick man replied. "Just let her know what's happened. Please."
He soon departed from Monk's room, and tracked down the precise phone number he was to call back at his office. Sighing, he dialed each number, trying to prepare for this….
"Hello, Sharona?"